


A Love Letter to My Scars and Yours

by Fenrevas



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Brief mentions of past abuse in the context of slavery, Character Study, Chronic Pain, Descriptions of Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, F/M, Feel-good, Fenris speaking Orlesian (French), Fluff, Healing, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), Romantic Fluff, body-positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29330454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenrevas/pseuds/Fenrevas
Summary: 'A life of fighting, fixing, running, has left her worn. She is softer now, between her hard edges. Lean muscle and lines tempered over time.'Fenris is learning Orlesian and Hawke really loves pancakes.Ash Hawke is about 36 here. Set in between the events of Inquisition and Trespasser.
Relationships: Female Hawke - Relationship, Fenris & Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: A Dragon Age Valentine's 2021





	A Love Letter to My Scars and Yours

A Love Letter to My Scars and Yours

Hawke opens her eyes to the first morning light as it filters through the tall, narrow windows of the room. Though she is rarely awake early enough to watch the sunrise, the quiet moments before the Keep stirs are precious to her. 

Frequently she watches from the other side of the dawn, only creeping from the battlements to her bed when she sees the first rosy tendrils of light escape over the horizon. 

This is a time of day she does not often see, and she savours it now. 

The events of the previous day come back to her. Hawke lets out a groan as her body remembers the bruises and strained muscles. She extends her arm and flexes her wrist. A test of sorts. 

Her joints pop and crack, and the sounds echo around the stone walls of the room. A reminder that she is older now, and her body is not as resilient as it once was. Yesterday’s fighting, roving bandits and angry varghests in the desert sun, has taken its toll. She is not yet ready to move from the bed.

Noticing movement beside her, Hawke turns and grimaces as she grips her shoulder. An old injury aggravated; sharp pain shoots down to her fingertips. 

At her side, Fenris’ face is soft in sleep still. This is another rare sight for Hawke, and her face breaks into a smile. She forgets the pain in her shoulder and lays on her side to face him. 

An old habit formed by the whip, Fenris like clockwork wakes before the sun. He used to fight it. He confessed it to her once over a bottle of Aggregio, drinking away his evenings to avert his body from its early rise. 

But Fenris has buried enough of his demons in the intervening years to allow himself the freedom of dawn. To reclaim yet another trait that was not of his own making. 

This morning though, he too sleeps past the sunrise. 

The early sun moves higher in the sky as Hawke dozes in and out of sleep until a single shaft of light falls across the bed, rousing her. 

She sees that Fenris is awake now. He is sat up in bed, legs crossed with a book perched against his knees. The cover, which he holds open with one hand as his brow furrows in concentration, reads 'Les Trois Soeurs de Montbelliard'.

“You’re learning Orlesian now are you?” Hawke lets out a sunny laugh and turns to lay on her back. Neck stiff, she twists her head to look over at him. 

Upon hearing Hawke’s words, Fenris takes a red ribbon and pushes it between the pages of the tome. 

He gently places the book on the bed beside him, uncrosses his legs, and leans forward on his elbows beside Hawke. 

“Mon coeur bat la chamade pour toi.” He pauses and struggles with the pronunciation of the words. 

“Oh Fenris, did you just say something dirty? What kind of book is it that you’re reading?”

Fenris reaches out then with one arm, and gently touches the tips of his fingers to the side of her face. Hawke’s eyes crinkle in laughter and his thumb brushes against crow’s feet lines. 

Hawke relaxes back into the mattress. The soft down, courtesy of the Inquisition, is certainly finer than any bed she’s had since Kirkwall. 

She thinks about Kirkwall, and about how much has changed in the years since.

Back then, their touches had been frantic, desperate. The stifling intensity of the brewing conflict, the mage rebellion. Every new loss pushing her further towards the cliff-edge, creating a perfect storm with Hawke at its centre. She had clung to Fenris, as she pushed him away. Then closed herself for fear of losing again. 

Now, the days are longer, and their affection burns like hot embers instead of blue flame. 

Closing her eyes, Hawke’s laughter gentles to a smile. She lets out a sigh. 

The bed shifts as Fenris adjusts his position beside her. Quiet inhale and exhale of breath in the stillness of the room. 

In the distance Hawke can hear the Keep stirring. Somewhere a horn bellows, signalling the beginning of the troops’ daily drills. She makes out the far-off clattering of swords. 

Fenris’ touch brings her back to the moment. 

His sword-worn fingers glide down her neck, pressing gently at the sore muscle of her injured shoulder as if in recognition of her pain. She squeezes her eyes tight against the discomfort. 

He does not linger there, continuing to trace her skin boldly but without intent.

Gentle sunlight warms the room. With eyes closed Hawke can picture the way the light shimmers and catches on the dust. 

From his position at her side, Fenris moves to map every dip and ridge of her; every white-grey scar that marks her skin. Her breath slows. Golden warmth fills her. She inhales deep to breathe it in. 

Sure fingers cross uneven ribs; bones broken and healed many times beyond counting. A life of fighting, fixing, running, has left her worn. She is softer now, between her hard edges. Lean muscle and lines tempered over time. 

Hawke smiles as Fenris leans further into her warmth. She lets out a silent laugh as his nose tickles her ear and her whole body shakes with mirth. He laughs with her; she can feel as Fenris swallows and clears his throat to compose himself. 

He continues to follow the trail left by soft dark hair that covers her stomach, until he reaches her most obvious scar. Fenris does not pause in his movement as he touches tenderly at the jagged-smooth edges of the mark left by the Arishok’s blade. 

Hawke flinches then stills herself. A long exhale to regain the previous calm. 

The scar pulses still. It holds the memory of that first time she was certain death had come for her. She cannot recall the moment the blade took her, but her body remembers. 

Her lover’s touch is self-assured. Fenris does not avoid her scar as he holds her against him now, thumb brushing in a slow arc across its border. 

Besides, they have talked about this before. 

Fenris told her of white searing pain burned into muscle and sinew, cooled to a constant aching thrum under his skin. 

Some days they are a flash of bright hot agony. A burning brand against the red-raw skin of a fresh wound. 

Usually though, the sensation dulls to a softer hum of not-quite-pain that aches with memories. 

At one time his skin only knew the harsh touch of the man who called himself Master. Then as Fenris fought to heal, he avoided touching his markings. They served as an ever-present reminder of what he had lost, and what he had been made to become. 

But as he became accustomed to Hawke’s touch, his oversensitive skin calmed. Desensitised through gradual exposure. 

Though some days his pain is still too much, when Hawke traces his markings, whether with fiery purpose or idle contentment, he does not always flinch. Avoiding all touch, he told her, had only made the pain of his scars worse.

Hawke recoils from his touch now. It has become too much. Even willing herself to lie still, she can only withstand the caress against her oversensitive skin for so long. 

In response, Fenris moves to rest the palm of his hand just above the scar and stills.

Hawke opens her eyes. For an instant the light is so bright it hurts, and she blinks until she adjusts. The sun is nearing its peak now. Her stomach rumbles. 

“I could murder some pancakes. Or butter soup perhaps. Oh Fenris! Do you think Adaia has any blessed apple left over from yesterday?” 

“Perhaps Hawke, we can live in hope.” Fenris says it dryly, but she can tell he is poking fun at her and humouring her all the same. She also knows how much he loves Adaia’s blessed apple dessert. 

Hawke rolls her shoulders back and turns her head just enough so that she can see his face. Green eyes that are bright but heavy-lidded from sleep. She’s not certain but thinks they must have lost time dozing. The quiet early dawn feels like an age ago. 

Turning fully towards him now, she stretches out the arm she had been laid on and the blood rushes back in a flood of spines. Fenris moves his hand up to her shoulder blade and presses her closer. 

It doesn’t take much to close the gap between them and Hawke touches her lips to his. Her mouth is dry, but it does not matter. She breathes in. Cloves and woodsmoke. Forest leaves. 

Fenris touches his fingertips to her cheek again as they part. His stomach rumbles and they laugh together. “Pancakes, come on!” Hawke manages to say between her body’s joyful tremors. 

“Je tiens à toi…plus que…tu n'aime…les crêpes.” With that, he lays back, crosses his arms behind his head and raises one eyebrow at her. 

“Now I know that you just said something terribly romantic Fenris. But you should know that nothing you say is going to distract me from my important mission.” He lets out a small chuckle at that. The soft crinkle of leaves underfoot. 

“An excellent point.” Fenris sits up and stretches. “I suppose we have rested long enough. And I do enjoy Adaia’s cooking.” 

Hawke pushes herself up onto her knees and bends to pull a fresh tunic out of the chest at the foot of their bed. She throws a clean tunic and set of leggings to Fenris and they dress in comfortable silence. 

Midday sun and the smell of freshly baked spiced apple greet them as they step out into the courtyard of the Keep. 

Hawke is not sure how long she wishes to stay here. She feels uncertain about where she is going and adrift without purpose. But in this moment, at least, she thinks it does not matter.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a body-positive piece about acceptance (including self-acceptance). 
> 
> The description of Hawke and Fenris' chronic pain in this fic is based on my own experiences. So this has been a love letter to my own scars too.


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